Harry looked into the eyes of the other man. There was no more sign of smugness, only fear, and Harry knew it was no more than a reflection of his own.
‘What the hell you doing here, Mr Washington?’ Harry asked, when at last he could.
‘Sorry, force of habit,’ the American spluttered, trying to catch his breath. ‘Can’t trust you Brits to do anything for yourselves nowadays. Thought you might need a little help.’
‘At least for once you haven’t arrived late.’
The American nodded, tried to smile, his eyes lifted up the stairs to what lay ahead.
‘Got time for that second lap, Mr Washington?’ Harry enquired.
‘No time like the present, Mr Jones.’
So they ran once more. As they reached the third floor they could hear the sound of something substantial falling apart. The back staircase? It had been burning longer. This one would soon follow. But even as they climbed the stairs, believing that for the moment they’d left behind the worst of it, the fire was playing a foul, evil
trick. The rear staircase was narrow, enclosed, it acted like a flue, and it had sucked up–convected–the heat to the top of the building, where it built, grew in strength, until it touched a thousand degrees. The very fabric of the building began to burst into flame, from the ceiling down. The tops of curtains, the books piled above the wardrobes, then the wardrobes themselves. Oxygen was sucked from the air, to be replaced by poison. A death trap. And as they climbed higher, they began to lose focus–oh, Christ, carbon monoxide, the silent killer. They weren’t heading away from danger but directly into it. Harry fell to his knees, desperately searching for air to breathe, crawling, scrabbling, surrounded by smoke, choking, coughing up his lungs, his face on the floor. It was only Washington dragging him forward once more that enabled him to make the final few yards to Nipper’s door. Harry reached for the handle and gave a gasp of pain; it seemed to sink teeth into his flesh, hot enough to fry eggs. He used the blanket as a fire glove, and burst into the room.
The boy was sitting patiently on his bed, the dirk in its case on his lap, as though waiting to go off to school. ‘Hello, Harry, Mr Washington. I knew you’d come.’
Despite the brave words, Harry could see the fright in Nipper’s eyes. The room was already filling with smoke.
‘It’s all right, Nipper, it’s all right,’ Harry lied, grabbing the boy’s face and forcing him to concentrate on his words instead of the fire. ‘Look at me. Do you have
any rope? A fire ladder, perhaps? Anything like that?’
The boy shook his head, his eyes darting back and forth in alarm. From below came the sound of some further collapse, so fundamental that the castle shook.
‘You sure, Nipper? Anything?’ Harry pleaded.
‘Perhaps the roof, Mr Jones,’ Washington suggested.
‘For once, I accept your suggestion,’ Harry replied. ‘How, Nipper? How do we get there?’
All three of them were coughing; they didn’t have much time. Nipper pointed, indicating a door in the far corner of the room that Harry had assumed to be a cupboard, but the boy tugged at his hand, pulling him forward. The door opened to reveal a short flight of steps leading to a trapdoor. They could smell the fresh air beyond. And a few moments later they could see the sky.
Harry stood still, letting the wind clear his lungs and cool his flesh. He even allowed it to bring back a little hope. As his stinging eyes adjusted to the darkness, he searched around the roof space. It was flat, but lurking in the shadows near the ramparts was a half-obscured object that made his heart leap with excitement as he began to figure out its form. A builder’s hoist! One that Alan MacDougall had used to haul all manner of things up–and down–the castle sides.
‘Come on, this is the way out!’ Harry cried, yet even as he lunged forward, doubts began to smother this new-born hope. As he touched it, flakes of rust scratched at his hands. There was an electrical motor but, as Harry hit every button, no power. There was a manual release
for the drum, but even as Harry snatched at it, the damned thing kept jamming.
‘What do you suggest we do, Mr Jones?’ Washington’s question was put softly, not screamed.
‘I suggest we should have stayed at home.’
‘I guess it’s Plan B, then.’
‘Remind me about that one, will you?’
Washington pointed at the hoist. ‘The old Indian rope trick. We play out the wire by hand.’
Even as they began unwinding the wire, they could feel the heat spreading up through the roof.
As carefully as he could in the darkness, Harry fashioned a small noose at the end of the steel rope. ‘Nipper,’ he cried, grabbing the boy, ‘you put your foot in this and hang on. We’ll lower you down. You understand?’
Nipper nodded.
‘Scared?’
Nipper nodded once more.
‘Clever boy. Now don’t look down, just hold on tight.’
But the boy still had the dirk case under his arm.
‘Better give me that for safekeeping, Nipper. Don’t want you to drop it.’
Nipper looked at Harry cautiously. ‘You’re not English, are you?’
‘Jones. It’s a Welsh name, Nipper.’
‘You sure?’
‘You can ask anyone.’
‘OK,’ Nipper replied reluctantly, handing over the case.
Harry took out the dirk and tucked it in the back of his belt. ‘I’ll give it back to you later. That’s a promise.’
And as Harry struggled to release the sticking drum, Washington stood on the ramparts, taking the weight of the boy as he lowered him, as smoothly as possible, over the side. Down below the others had seen them and were shouting encouragement. The fabric of the roof was beginning to smoke.
Nipper was still nearly thirty feet from the ground when the drum seized, and no amount of kicking or cursing could persuade it to change its mind.
‘You’re going to have to jump, Nipper,’ Harry bellowed above the noise of the fire, looking down over the ramparts.
‘I don’t want to, Harry,’ a small voice floated back up.
‘You can do it. Like the Lady of Lorne, remember? There’s magic in this place–MacDougall magic. You don’t have anything to worry about.’
Nipper peered down, then looked back up to Harry once more. ‘You still got her dirk?’
‘Safe and sound, Nipper. I’m right behind you!’ If only…
And Nipper jumped. D’Arby was there, arms outstretched to break the fall, and they both tumbled to the ground. Through the darkness and swirling smoke, Harry thought he could see both of them clambering to their feet.
‘You’re next,’ he said, turning to the American. Suddenly, he saw Washington’s hands. They were covered in blood, his palms shredded. The steel wire had torn them to pieces, yet he had made no sound of complaint. He stepped gingerly over to the hoist and began attacking it yet again, trying to release the drum. The stench of scorching roof felt was foul. As the American stood over the machine, Harry could see the surface of the roof was melting.
Then the entire frame of the hoist shuddered, slipped sideways a fraction, started to tilt. Washington turned to Harry, who was still clinging to the ramparts. Both of them knew what was about to happen, the horror of it written in the American’s eyes. Harry reached out towards Washington, who stretched out his own bloodied hand, but not far enough.
The American didn’t cry out, perhaps there was no time, even though what happened next seemed to occupy half of eternity and would be remembered by Harry for the rest of his life. The hoist shook once more. Then a mouth of flame, filled with jagged teeth, opened up beneath it, and swallowed it whole, taking Marcus Washington down with it.
Harry had no time to dwell on what had happened. As the hoist disappeared, it dragged its steel pipe with it. The wire whipped past Harry’s head, snaking out with an evil ripping sound, snatching at him. He looked at the flaming gap, which was pouring cinders into the
sky, knowing the rest of the roof couldn’t be long in following.
The heat was rising with every heartbeat. Harry put a tentative foot on what seemed like solid roof, but it stuck to his shoe. From far below came cries of alarm. There was no way back down.
As quickly as he could, but with great care, he clambered along the ramparts in search of some unnoticed ladder or fixture, but there was nothing, only a precipitous drop that he knew would kill him. His skin was burning from the heat, he could smell his hair singeing, and instinctively he made his way round to the seaward side of the castle, where the salt wind coming off the water was cooler. Even above the thunder of the fire, Harry could hear the tide as it beat against the footings of the castle. Somewhere below him, three floors, was a library whose books were already burning. The history of the MacDougalls was being lost forever. His mind fixed on the view from the window, of the unforgiving rocks lashed by spray that reached sometimes as high as the windows themselves. Desperately he tried to recall those ribbons of rocks surrounded by wave and tide, and where one finished and the others began, but no matter how hard he tried to imagine it differently he knew he could never jump far enough to reach the safety of the sea. Only seagulls could survive down there.
He stood on the ramparts, facing out to the ocean, into the wind. Beneath him the castle was groaning. His mind wandered to that arrogant, eccentric, extraor
dinarily brave man, Marcus Washington, who had just died at his side. How Harry had misjudged him. But Washington had been fortunate, too, his suffering was over. He hadn’t been left to roast slowly on the ramparts. An old bullet wound in Harry’s back was screaming in insult, it felt as if it were melting, and the rest of his body wasn’t far behind. He took a deep breath, tasted the salt, the wind, the ocean, trying to cling to this last moment. He didn’t want to die, yet the only thing left to him was to decide the manner of his death. He would jump, of course, anything but the fire. But was it better to go feet first, or some other way? That and a hundred other questions hurtled though his mind but they encountered not a single answer.
And suddenly, sitting on the ramparts nearby, through the swirling smoke he thought he saw Michael Burnside. He was laughing.
Harry was still arguing with himself, standing on the ramparts, when the roof behind him collapsed. The eruption of flame and heat that was thrown up smashed into him harder than anything had ever hit him in his life, and all further decisions were ripped from his hands. He was picked up and sent hurtling through the darkness as, behind him, Castle Lorne finally died.
Sunday, 1.17 a.m. British Summer Time; 8.17 a.m. Beijing.
Sir Wesley Lake was shaken awake. He forced his eyes open to discover two guards standing over him. God, not another beating, he moaned. He had little idea of the passage of time–they’d given him drugs as well as roughing him up–and he had even less idea of what he might have told them. Anything they wanted, perhaps. Or nothing. He didn’t know, but if he had told them anything, they wouldn’t still be interrogating him, would they?
Yet, as his senses came into focus, he was surprised to discover that his guards had changed. They were no longer screaming at him but simply telling him to follow them. Breakfast had been set in the room outside, but they allowed him little opportunity to eat it. ‘You come!’ they instructed. And soon he found himself squeezed between two other stiff-faced guards in the back of a car, the horn blaring, speeding
through the streets of Beijing. It didn’t stop until it was inside the compound of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
As he climbed stiffly up the steps, refusing an offer of help from his escort, he couldn’t help noticing the size of the military guard, not just at the entrance but inside, too. That wasn’t normal, but what was normal any more? His world had lost its shape; this wasn’t the China he recognised. He was still trying to find his way through the thicket of his thoughts when, waiting for him in one of the Ministry reception rooms with its huge stuffed armchairs and elaborate Chinese decorations, he was astonished to discover Sammi Shah. The BBC man was looking scarcely better than the ambassador felt.
‘Hell!’ Lake exclaimed, catching sight of the other man’s bruises and cuts. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Guess I got too nosy. You?’
‘Must have forgotten to pay a parking ticket. You know how upset the Chinese get about traffic congestion.’ He couldn’t tell him the truth; he didn’t know what the truth was. He fell into one of the armchairs. Sammi followed.
‘You notice how these armchairs are placed with their backs right up against the wall,’ the BBC man remarked.
‘Your point?’
‘I feel like I’m about to face a firing squad.’
‘You’re a cheerful sod this morning.’
Yet Sammi wasn’t smiling, and when he opened his mouth to talk, Lake noticed he had two teeth missing.
They were interrupted as the richly carved doors to the reception room opened. They were astonished to see the diminutive figure of the Foreign Minister walking towards them, his face set grim. The two Britons didn’t bother to struggle to their feet.
‘If he offers you a cigarette,’ Sammi whispered, ‘remember to duck.’
Sunday, 1.32 a.m. Castle Lorne.
It was the force of the explosion that saved him. It hurled Harry further away from the walls than he could ever have jumped, far enough to reach one of those coruscating ribbons of sea that had cut their way into the rock, just deep enough at high tide to break his fall. He did it feet first in the end.
He was held under by the current, but it did him a favour, dragging him out to sea and away from the surf that was trying to smash him onto the rocks. He drifted with the sea for a short while, letting the water revive him, before kicking out towards the shore and the gently sloping beach a little along the bay. He had to ride the tide; Harry had reached the point of physical exhaustion that brought a man close to collapse. But he was in no hurry, not any more.
As he dragged himself from the water, Harry looked back towards the castle. It appeared like a candle. The walls still stood strong, for the moment, but every window and aperture glowed in the night, and the roof
had been replaced by an outpouring of flame. Everything that Castle Lorne was, and represented, was gone, along with a very brave American. Harry began to stumble his way back, and as he did so, his exhaustion was replaced by overwhelming anger. None of what had happened should have been, and with every step his rage grew. In the end, it was what drove him on, keeping him going, even after his legs began screaming for him to stop.
Outside the castle, the group had recast itself at the edge of the circle of light thrown out by the fire, on the far side of the causeway. For the moment Blythe Edwards had ceased to be President of the United States and was comforting Flora, who sobbed quietly in a confusion of misery and relief as she sat before the ruins of her home, her arms clasped firmly around her grandson as though determined never again to let him go. D’Arby paced up and down in agitation, while Shunin sat on a rock, crossing himself as he gazed silently into the fire, marvelling at its ferocity. Lavrenti was nowhere to be seen. He had disappeared into the night. Lost in their own troubles, no one missed him.
D’Arby was the first to see the figure of Harry stumbling towards them along the beach. He cried out. ‘Look–they’re alive!’ Yet as he ran towards Harry, he slowed as he saw there was only one. ‘Where’s Washington?’ he asked. Harry pushed him savagely away.
He collapsed onto a group of rocks, his legs numb with fatigue. As D’Arby hovered in uncertainty, Blythe came to his side.
‘You OK?’
‘Been better.’
‘Marcus?’
As he looked up Blythe saw that Harry’s face was a battlefield. The eyelids were raw, scoured by salt and smoke, he had a cut on his scalp, his forehead was an artist’s palette of matted hair, blood and wounds. And if his face were a mess, so too were his emotions.
‘Marcus didn’t make it. But he’s the reason Nipper and I did.’
She hid her face, her shoulders slumped in sorrow.
‘A terrible, tragic accident,’ D’Arby offered.
In an instant of anger Harry’s face was only inches away from the Prime Minister’s, his mood wild, his lips drawn back as he panted with passion. ‘This was no accident!’
D’Arby stepped back, startled. Harry pursued him. ‘The castle’s gone. Washington with it. The boy nearly died, too!’
‘Harry, I’m devastated, but you can’t blame me.’
‘Then who else? I promise you I’m going to nail this on someone, and you’re right at the top of my list.’
‘But this is ridiculous. You’re clearly in shock, you need time,’ the Prime Minister said, anxious to console, turning away from the accusation and kneeling down next to where Nipper and Flora were sitting, trying to deflect the conversation. Yet not everyone was as keen to put the matter to one side. Shunin had wandered over. ‘What are you implying, Mr Jones?’ he asked.
‘I’m implying–
stating
–that there’s a maggot in our midst. The fire wasn’t started by accident and certainly not by the incendiary division of the People’s Liberation Army, but by someone here on the inside.’
‘Who? Why?’
For a moment, Harry didn’t answer. He stared at all those around him, testing, accusing. Then he laughed, a dry, unhappy sound. ‘You know, Mark, for a while there I thought it might have been you.’
‘I set the fire?’ the Prime Minister gasped in alarm, jumping to his feet. ‘You’re quite mad! What the hell made you think that?’
‘You set everything else up. You’re the only reason any of us is here. And you appear out of the fire immaculately dressed, with everything in place. You even found time to lace up your shoes. It was almost as if you were prepared, waiting for it.’
‘I’ll excuse your ramblings only because you’ve clearly hit your head,’ D’Arby responded tetchily. ‘For God’s sake, I couldn’t sleep. I heard the commotion. I didn’t hang around.’
‘I can see that now.’
‘How?’
‘Your socks, Mark.’
‘My bloody socks?’
‘You flashed them when you knelt down. They’re different colours.’
D’Arby hoisted his trousers above his ankles. One black. One grey.
‘Guess you dressed in a hurry,’ Harry said.
‘I’ll take that as your apology,’ D’Arby muttered resentfully. ‘Anyway, as I remember matters,
you
were the first one to discover the fire. I seem to recall you running
up
the stairs. You were the one with the opportunity, perhaps the motivation, too. You obviously have no liking for what we came here to do. You’ve been getting in our way ever since we arrived, always questioning, casting doubts. Motive enough.’
Shunin was nodding; even Blythe was looking on quizzically.
‘So, since you’re kicking allegations about others around so freely, Harry, care to share your alibi with us?’ D’Arby demanded.
‘I wasn’t making allegations, Mark, simply offering ideas.’
‘Enough with ideas. Let’s talk location. Where were you when the fire started?’
‘Yes, come on, Mr Jones, what’s your alibi?’ Shunin joined in, keen to show that hostility and suspicion weren’t solely a British preserve. They were all on edge, rattled by their narrow escape.
Harry defied them with his eyes, but he offered no explanation.
‘Seems you’re better at asking questions than answering them, Mr Jones,’ Shunin observed.
‘I’m his alibi,’ a voice whispered from the darkness. It was Blythe. ‘Harry was with me. In my room.’
The admission covered them like a bucket of cold
water. It took a moment to shake themselves and recover.
‘Discussing tactics, I suppose,’ Shunin said. ‘So, it seems we have an interesting situation. If it wasn’t the Prime Minister, and since both you and the President appear to have an
alibi
’–the word dripped with insinuation–‘what are you suggesting, Mr Jones? That it was Mr Washington?’
It was an insidious suggestion that wormed its way into them all. Marcus Washington was a man driven in life by so many insecurities–could he have been driven to his death by guilt? It was an easy suggestion to accept, but Harry would have none of it.
‘It wasn’t Marcus Washington who ransacked my room, Mr Shunin.’
‘Your room?’
‘You went through everything–drawers, cupboard, luggage, even my wash bag. Would you like to tell us why?’
‘No,’ he replied, softly, his face inscrutable.
‘And last night you went for a midnight stroll. Several miles of it, halfway towards Sullapool. You had a rendezvous, met with someone. I’d dearly like to find an innocent explanation for that, but I can’t. Can you help us, Mr President?’
The Russian’s face stiffened. ‘You are an inquisitive fool, Mr Jones.’
‘As you are brutal, Mr Shunin. You came here, accepted Mrs MacDougall’s hospitality, then violated it.
You beat your own son-in-law senseless. The reason he disappeared isn’t because he had an accident but because his face has been mashed to a pulp.’
‘Is that true, Sergei?’ Blythe breathed. ‘Did you?’
‘Are you trying to suggest I locked myself in my own room? This is ridiculous!’ The impassive mask cracked and fell away. ‘I am the President of Russia,’ he flared, the blood rushing to his cheeks. ‘I need give no explanations.’
‘Marcus Washington died,’ Blythe persisted, ‘and I’d like to know why.’
‘You accuse me?’
‘No. I simply enquire.’
‘I don’t think you’re in much of a position to discuss anything apart from your tactics with Mr Jones,’ the Russian threw back. ‘The two of you have the dirtiest hands here.’
‘You bastard,’ Blythe spat.
‘And what do your nocturnal negotiations make you, Madam President?’ he retaliated. ‘Forgive me, my English isn’t so good. What is the word…?’
He was reaching for it, about to produce it, when Harry hit him. On the jaw. A straight right. His fist seemed to connect with a sharp, cracking sound, almost like a gunshot, and he felt a stab of pain in his arm. Shunin fell backwards, and Harry fell on top of him. As he did so, he saw that they were both covered in blood.
Someone had shot the President of Russia.
Sunday, 1.40 a.m. British Summer Time; 8.40 a.m. in the Room of Many Miracles, Shanjing.
Sleeplessness was clogging Fu Zhang’s mind. He had long since ceased to have any understanding of the details on the screen, relying entirely on the director to guide him, literally by the hand, until he was told to make the final keystroke. Fu Zhang was making miracles, the glory was his, and it had been enough to get him through the long hours of the night. He had been denied his tea; not even a Minister was permitted to bring drinks into this electronic paradise, yet still his bladder had flooded, with excitement, and he was now wriggling with discomfort. ‘What are we doing?’ he enquired, moving closer as once more the screens shifted their focus and moved on.
As he felt the warmth of the Minister’s body, it was Li Changchun’s turn to shift uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Water,’ he replied. ‘London will have too much of it, once the flood barriers fail, but Birmingham, the country’s second-largest city, will have too little.’
‘Tell me more,’ Fu demanded, his lips wriggling in anticipation.
‘They add all sorts of chemicals to their water. Chlorine. Fluoride. Many others. Tiny amounts. But we are about to add a whole lot more.’
‘We will poison them?’
‘No, not directly, not unless they drink as much as a horse. The harm will be largely psychological. They
will quickly discover the problem, and it will be easily remedied, but there will be a panic. First at the water works and reservoirs, then amongst the British media, and finally amongst the public. Britain’s drinking habits will change overnight, dramatically. The editors of the press will encourage the British to think that every cupful of water their children take will shrivel their testicles or grow them an extra head. No one will feel safe.’
Fu chuckled as Li continued working away on his keyboard.
‘Very shortly, they will be afraid even to turn on their taps,’ the director said. ‘No one will die, Minister, but they will come to live in fear.’
‘A nation at war with itself.’
‘Our ancestors will applaud you, Minister.’
‘After which I must sleep,’ he said wearily. ‘And I shall wake to find a different world is waiting for us, Li Changchun!’
His celebrations were interrupted by new arrivals. A senior PLA officer was at the entrance, accompanied by two armed troopers. When the officer saw Fu Zhang, he marched towards him, the guard in close attendance. He stopped before the Minister and saluted sharply.
‘Vice-Minister Fu! General Wang Qishan has asked me to present his compliments, and request that you join him in the outer office,’ he barked.